


Déjà Vu

by AceintheSol



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Deja Vu, Developing Friendships, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Gen, Gilles is a Good Man, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Lion Apologism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-04 02:58:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17890223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceintheSol/pseuds/AceintheSol
Summary: Gilles is sure that he's met Flament somewhere before... Now if only he could remember where.





	Déjà Vu

The late hour finds him pensive, stalking quiet halls. Alone except for the sound of his own breathing. Gilles pauses to consider the soft grey light filtering in through a blocky window, a mix of moon and distant floodlights. He should be asleep, _would_ be asleep except their new man is on his mind. Flament is an abrasive man, of a sort Gilles has seen far too many times before. He’s proud, unyielding, snappish. A powderkeg just waiting to erupt at the slightest hint of a spark.

Maybe the problem is that the man is _distant_ . Flament has a habit of lingering on the edges of a room like a ghost. He’s a puzzle, frankly. Always sidling up to the group like he’s desperate to be included, then refusing to interact with them. Yet Flament’s awfully sour to be a wallflower. Always defensive, always combing every sentence for a hidden slight like he expects them to go for the throat. Quick to accuse, even if he would apologize afterwards. And he generally _is_ truly sorry, Gilles can tell by the flush on the tips of those ears.

So he tries. They _all_ try. Even Gustave, to a point, though Gilles knows that sometimes even civility is difficult for the two. But Flament is also not unlike a kicked dog: too afraid of _something_ to let anyone in, but so desperate for that connection that he can’t just _leave_. Can’t let it be. Whatever it is, he’s still a hard man to like. And the fact that he makes no attempts to ingratiate himself to anyone doesn’t help in the slightest. It certainly hadn’t helped him with the SAS today.

Thatcher had caught him with a punch that left Flament with a bloody nose, a fat lip, and a face bright red with rage and humiliation. The tension had already been thick enough to cut with a knife, but whether or not the GIGN were good friends with their loud-mouthed Lion they took care of their own. Both sides had closed ranks in an instant, hackles raised and teeth bared. And when Gilles caught sight of the petulant expression on Flament’s face, and of the put-upon look in his eye, he’d been hit with the worst wave of Déjà vu he’d ever experienced.

Defusing the situation was easier than the younger operators might have thought- Thatcher had no patience for bullshit, and that included holding grudges. Oh, he could be... _grouchy_ at times. No doubt about that. But Mike Baker was a one-and-done kind of man; once a matter was settled, however that may be, a matter was _settled_. He had helped Gilles and Gustave wave everyone away, and Flament had skulked off before their medic could rake him over the coals as he checked for potential fractures. Before Gilles could ask if they’d met before.

And now here he is. Pacing the halls steadily. Poking his head into the workshop to check in on Manu and wandering into the kitchen to shuffle an exhausted Julien out fondly. Ruminating. No matter how hard he tries, Gilles can’t seem to place Flament. He’s sure they’ve met, maybe in passing, but when? And where? Although he’s dying to know, he’s also just… _desperately_ tired. The answer will still be there in the morning; if all else fails, he can just ask Flament outright. Another round to hint to his friends that perhaps it’s time to turn in before heading that way himself.

A haggard looking Gustave passes him, going the opposite direction with a stack of fat manila folders clutched to his chest and an empty coffee cup hanging from his pinky finger. Gilles turns his head to give him a tired nod and a friendly smile, and that’s when he spots movement out of the corner of his eye. It’s the smallest of things, caught through a crack in a door. _Speak of the devil._

“Heading to bed, Gilles?” the medic asks pleasantly, never pausing in his steady gait- a question, and potentially a pointed suggestion.

“Shortly, yes,” he replies, still paused by the door. Flament didn’t make himself easy to like, but everybody needs _somebody_. And by the very quiet, poorly stifled sound of it, ‘everybody’ needs a somebody right now.

“Are _you_ ?” Gilles calls knowingly to the flutter of coattails still visible as Gustave rounds the corner. The laugh echoes back, dying into amused chuckles and finally silence. He lingers there, listening to the sharp tap of shoes grow further away. And then turning to the door, still hanging open ever so slightly, he starts. A wet blue eye meets his own, both pairs widening in surprise. With a tiny, gasping hitch of breath, the door is quickly shut in his face with a soft _click_. Then, the sound of feet softly padding away.

He sets his hand on the knob, trying it as stealthily as he can, and startles when it gives. Flament, Gilles suddenly realizes, has- in his own little way- given him an out. A way to avoid the awkward situation. A way to pretend he saw nothing, _heard_ nothing, was never even here.

Gilles is starting to learn that it’s all in what the younger man _doesn’t_ say. He considers it, to his shame, knee twitching as if to say “Let’s go.” But his hand drifts to the doorknob again anyway. Gilles’ father had taught him young that you never left someone in need if you knew that you could help. So he knocks, gently, to tell Flament he isn’t leaving. Then he pushes the door open.

“Flament?” Even though it’s barely more than a whisper, it booms in the oppressive silence.

The room is pitch black save for what light sneaks in from the hallway as Gilles enters. Long, deep, miserable shadows rush to swallow it back up as he shuts the door again. It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust, but even so Flament remains a black, man-shaped smudge perched on the edge of his bed. His head hanging. All of him unmoving. Gilles swallows, hard- the air in the room is nothing short of oppressive.

He shuffles into the room properly after a moment of tense silence, reaching for the lamp on Flament’s desk. Surprisingly, the lamplight is warm and low instead of harsh and glaring. It bathes everything in a cozy yellow that takes the edge off the prowling darkness, chasing it into the corners. Papers, folders, and an empty energy drink that fell over and was never righted all litter the wood surface.

For all the clutter on the desk, the room doesn’t feel lived in. It looks busy at the very most. The shoebox bedrooms on base make him yearn for home on better days, but tonight they feel like a trap. And Gilles had walked willingly into the Lion’s Den. And then, with a single glance at Flament, he’s dandled on his grandfather’s knee for the very last time. Tossed back to a long-passed Christmas Eve, just a month before the man slipped into the eternal sleep.

“Little bear,” Grandpapa had said in that tired, croaky voice of the old, “do no harm. Do no harm.” The why was lost to time. He’d only been two, so the context was long lost. If, in fact, there had ever been a reason. Grandpapa had a way of sharing what he thought was important whether or not it had anything to do with the conversation. It had taken ages to understand, but it guides him through the years. The message had stuck; somewhat of an irony in his profession. And _yet_. Do no harm, Gilles.

“Flament?” Gilles asks quietly, moving down to the foot of the bed.

As he draws nearer, it hits him- where he’s seen Flament before. It was years and _years_ ago, the sort of fateful meeting that would have stayed forgotten if only… Well. He’s filled out since then, but it’s all the same face. Ruddy cheeks, runny nose, bloodshot eyes so red they look like the belong to the demons Flament is so afraid of. Still just as lost, still just as painfully, dreadfully alone. That’s what does it, in the end, that terrible look is what draws Gilles in. It’s what drew him in before, too.

Fifteen years ago, Gilles met Olivier Flament on a damp park bench.

He only stopped because he’d been running his circuit for an hour and the then-teen hadn’t so much as moved. Just sat there picking at his nails until they bled. Unblinking eyes the color of the sky and just as wide open. Glassy, like doll’s eyes. His face was purple with bruises in some places, a split lip opened again from worrying it between his teeth. And Gilles had ached at the sight of him. The sun sat low on the horizon, twilight casting that strange light over the earth. Over the dirty shirt and grubby sneakers. Dew drops glittered on the grass below those feet.

“Are you okay?” He’d finally asked, eyebrows drawing together. No response, birds singing their twilight-song the only sound. For a moment, Gilles thought maybe the teen hadn’t heard. Just as he moved to lay a worried hand on one slim shoulder, blue eyes darted over to him. Pinprick pupils dilated when he finally blinked.

And then he answered.

“No,” came a quiet, ruined voice, “No, I- no.”

The bench grew another body heavier, Gilles scooting close. Part of him desperately wanted to ask what had happened. Fifteen years later, something still did. He had been younger then. Had know less about life and even less than that about for to help Flament. Especially since the then teen had been loath to part with the details. But on that day, as the sky grew darker, he did what he could. Gilles listened and was there.

“I don’t know what to do to- to _fix_ this.” Flament had said hoarsely. It was the second to last thing he said that day at all, sitting back and drawing his knees up onto the bench. He hadn’t known what to say to that. Now, if asked again, Gilles had advice and answers and consolation. Life could teach a lot in fifteen years. But with only “I’m not okay,” and “I don’t know how to fix this,” he had floundered for something to say.

“Sometimes,” Gilles had started hesitantly, trying not to fluster when those desperate, _desolate_ eyes stabbed into him again.

“You _can’t_ fix it.”

Then he couldn’t shut up. His mouth had a way of running away with him that he’d yet to get a handle on. Words had continued spilling out of his mouth until finally he managed to get a grip and _shut up_. Embarrassment always tasted sour in one’s mouth. It would have been better to say nothing, Gilles had thought. The poor kid looked at him like he was the last light on the horizon, though, and he’d had to take his own advice. Move forward and be better in the future.

“I just want to go home.” It was a tiny sound, so quiet Gilles almost hadn’t heard. He wasn’t meant to, and he knew it then. Knows it now. Those blue eyes were tired, but at last they held the light of something like resolution. Not hope, not yet- but conviction maybe. As if he knew what he was going to do. So when Flament had made to leave, Gilles had let him.

Now, he wonders what his words wrought.

Clumsy and inadequate as they were, did they bring him here? Like the butterfly effect? He hopes, as he lays a warm, heavy hand on a tired shoulder, that it helped. If nothing else, he hopes that it helped. Flament stiffens under his touch, shoulders twitching like the younger man desperately wants to hunch up. Like he wants to protect his throat.

Something ugly hangs in the air that tastes like lonely and sounds like shame.

“Gilles,” comes an uncertain voice that makes him _ache_ , “am I doing the right thing?” And his mouth still had a way of running away with him, because he didn’t hesitate to answer.

“Yes, Olivier,” he says kindly, although he has no idea what the other man is talking about.

Silence follows after a long, shuddering exhale. He wonders if Olivier does this a lot. If he sits at the end of his bed and picks at his nails, unthinking. Gilles takes several deep, deliberate breaths- waiting patiently for Olivier to sync up with him. Expecting much more out of him while he’s like this is foolish in the extreme. Gilles would take the uncertain nod if that was all he was offered.

“Will...” Olivier trails off, pausing in time with a long blink.

“Will you help me?” He finally asks, allowing Gilles to still his twitching hands and lace his fingers together.

“Always,” Gilles answers in a low, warm voice. Wherever that mind is, whatever it’s turning over, he would be remiss in letting the quietest cry for help he’s ever heard go unanswered. He thinks maybe Olivier doesn’t recall their first meeting. It was fifteen years ago, and Gilles knows he wasn’t... entirely _present_. But then the younger man sets a weary head on his shoulder and he thinks maybe he does. Just maybe. Rough fingers dig into his back, but he says nothing.

It’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fuckyeahrainbowsix Valentine's day event. A belated gift from me to you!
> 
> I wrestled a lot with this one- I liked it a lot at first, but in classic fashion began to hate it more and more as time went on. I had to call it quits and just free the beast, so here's hoping it isn't entirely fiddle-faddle.


End file.
